


The One With the Cinder

by R_Clearwater



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Cinderella spoof, F/M, Fluff, Humour, crack that takes itself seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 22:35:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21856693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_Clearwater/pseuds/R_Clearwater
Summary: "So, Cindercarson, I'll have to ask again: what exactly are you doing in Mr. Barrow's pantry?"_._Alternative Summary:A fifth footman, an enchanted ladle, six bottles of his Lordship's Bordeaux, and a glass pocket-watch. What could possibly go wrong?
Relationships: Charles Carson & Beryl Patmore, Charles Carson & Elsie Hughes, Charles Carson/Elsie Hughes, Thomas Barrow & Sarah O'Brien
Kudos: 2





	1. The Awakening

**Author's Note:**

> **Author's Note:** Happy holidays, everyone! I hope you all enjoy this little holiday, fluffy treat - one that is designed to add a little cheer, wherever you are in life!
> 
> **Warning:** Shameless crack ahead! Liberties of all kinds have been taken to an extreme - names, pocket watches, you name it. You've been warned.
> 
> **Disclaimer:** I don't own the original story (Cinderella), the musical/movie (Disney's 1997 version of Rodgers & Hammerstein's _Cinderella_ ), or the fanfiction ("Fairy Tale Life" by Moonlite Knite) that inspired this.
> 
> **Rating:** K+
> 
> **Word Count:** 982

"I do hope this is an honest mistake," The housekeeper's voice was a bit more muffled and sharper than normal, but that might have been his fault. It seemed he'd fallen asleep at his desk again, probably due to the overworking himself. "However, I do have to question otherwise."

Elsie's voice sounded a bit more perturbed than normal, that was for certain. Indeed, that gentle lilt of hers, one that could snap into a commanding tone within a heartbeat, was not reaching his ears quite as kindly as it normally would have.

"So, Cindercarson, I'll have to ask again: what exactly are you doing in Mr. Barrow's pantry?"

"Stirring" would have been too gentle an expression for the movement Charles Carson made at the words "Mr. Barrow's pantry". In fact, anything less than "a sudden and violent jolt into conscious thought" was undoubtedly also an understatement.

"Mrs. Hughes," A blurry vision focused into a horrifying sight he had never wanted to see again, "Miss O'Brien!"

"That's _Mrs._ O'Brien to you. Don't know where you got _that_ impertinent idea from, you've only ever been a fifth footman here at Downton, Cindercarson." The woman snapped at him, obviously irate with his presumptuous manner. "And before you get any other impertinent ideas, you best remove yourself from Mr. Barrow's desk at once. How dare you think you've a right to such privileges!"

Bolting once again into horrified action, the phrase truly registering this time, "'Mr. Barrow's desk'?"

"Is there an echo in here?" Tetchily shooing him toward the door, "You best be lucky we still need a fifth footman. Else all you'd need to do right now is clear out!"

"Is something the matter, Mrs. O'Brien?"

Thomas Barrow always did have a knack for descending upon any situation much like a vulture who'd finally caught long-sought prey. Luckily for Charles, Barrow hadn't seen the fifth footman until after said footman maintained a good distance from the desk.

"Not at all, Mr. Barrow. Cindercarson was just leaving. Apparently, he thought it appropriate to keep watch over your pantry in your absence. Though, I'm sure it was only an _honest_ mistake."

_Cindercarson?_ Charles repeated the name to himself in further abject horror, having no idea what was going on. She'd referred to him by that name twice now and he couldn't comprehend why this was the case. Furthermore, why had Thomas commandeered his pantry? And why was Sarah O'Brien referring to herself in such a matter with a chatelaine mockingly attached to her hip?

Yet all of these questions paled in comparison to the unsteadying his mind with every breath:

Where on earth was Elsie May Hughes?

"Of all people, Cindercarson, you thought _you_ were best qualified to 'keep watch' over _my_ pantry?" Realizing he was once more in this accursed limelight, Charles hurriedly turned back to his alleged superior in an attempt to diffuse the situation. But Barrow was tersely continuing on with great disdain, uninterested in any sort of apologetic response, "Well, I didn't realize you thought yourself worthy of such a privilege, Cindercarson. But, if that's the privilege you wish to seek, I am more than happy to ensure you're in a position to obtain it."

"Thomas," Really, there was no need for this to continue. He didn't know what was going on, but he was in no mood to endure whatever this nightmare had in mind.

"That's Mr. Barrow to you." O'Brien snapped, though the butler in question was already raising in a hand to silence all conversation. The pair coolly looked at Charles as though they had both been wanting to do this sort of thing since the footman's first day at Downton.

"I'm afraid you've not earned that privilege yet, Cindercarson." The alleged subordinate stared down his supposed as the younger man continued, "However, I think you've earned the privilege of polishing _all_ the silver in the house."

"But––"

"Oh, I think that's the perfect role for an aspiring servant," Mrs. O'Brien haughtily agreed, having changed tunes quite effortlessly, "In fact, I'll make sure Cindercarson attends to it at once. You just make sure that he hasn't disturbed your pantry."

"Right you are, Mrs. O'Brien. Right you are." Permission freely given to the woman to drag–– lead the footman away, the housekeeper of Downton imperially turned to Charles, those ever-present calculations of hers remaining firmly in her eyes.

"If you'll _kindly_ follow me, Cindercarson." Without another word, she gestured for him to follow. Then, turning on her heel much like a drill sergeant might've, the woman proceeded to lead him through the downstairs area so as to ensure the fifth footman reached his destination uninterrupted. "We'll first be reminded of just where your place in this household is."

In other words, she was going to march him around every aspect of the downstairs area in order to remind him where he stood in the pecking order.

Fortunately, due to these actions of hers, Charles had finally been allowed to make some sort of sense in regards to whatever this was. He didn't think he could outright assume anything just yet, but many theories trailed after him throughout this part of the journey.

Still, even though theories existed, reassurance had not been found.

Upon being paraded by the kitchens, Charles caught sight of a great many things. He saw Braithwaite start to answer the bells normally designated to Anna. He saw Denker mulling over some sort of putrid broth, Daisy nowhere in sight. He even saw James at his most arrogant, feet unashamedly propped up on the table after O'Brien had fiercely stalked past. All in all, by the time Charles finally did reach the silver, there was only one sort of conclusion that could be made:

He had no idea what on earth was going on.

But, whatever this was, he didn't think he'd be able to escape it anytime soon.


	2. The Magic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** I'm pleased to say, as packed as today will be, I managed to set aside some time to tidy this up and post it as promised!
> 
> More liberties have been taken! Hope you enjoy!
> 
> **Word Count:** 3,850

"I bet you regret having to take care of all of that, Cindercarson." Scowling at the silver instead of Denker's face, the footman paused in his efforts. This was only the silver closest to the butler's pantry and he was still only getting started. Unfortunately, this hardly touched that storage room of theirs. Already, it was taking him an ungodly amount of time to sort through it and he'd started almost three hours ago.

"I think I'd regret this even more if I had to endure it in your presence, Mrs. Denker." Charles had learned how to catch onto this charade, something that was exceptionally difficult seeing as how he didn't agree with any of its details. Having reached a level of camaraderie with many of the kinder members of the downstairs staff, he didn't care for the fact that his nastier colleagues had been given permission to reign over everyone else in this nightmare. Yet, that wasn't the worst of it: the worst of it was that, in the hours he'd spent labouring over these tasks, he'd not seen nor heard any of those colleagues, those trusted friends. No Anna, no Mr. Bates, no Mrs. Patmore, no Daisy. And, much to an increasingly numbing dejection, no Elsie Hughes.

"Think you're funny, do you, Cindercarson?"

_Hardly._ "Is there something you want, Mrs. Denker?"

"Originally? Just to wish you luck. Now? I think I ought to fetch some more of that silver for you, help you out a bit."

_Very funny._ "There's no need to go to such trouble––"

"Oh, it'd be my pleasure, especially since Mr. Barrow and Mrs. O'Brien are off to the ball this evening! Not like they can help you much right now, now can they?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Don't tell me you've forgotten about the ball!" He turned back to his silver in a desperate attempt to indicate he had no desire to continue conversing with her. But, his efforts were in vain: "I simply can't believe that you forgot about the ball! I can only suppose being in your own little corner for the last three hours has turned your brain to mush, but I didn't think it was _that_ bad." Thinking to herself, now blithely speaking aloud in a rather crass manner, "When Mrs. O'Brien'd said you'd lost your marbles today, I'd originally thought that she'd been joking. But now that I've gotten a chance to see everything for myself, well,"

Inhaling a newfound sense of patience that remained tinted with irritation––

_SMACK._

"I really don't think she was ever going to shut up."

The brash tone of one Beryl Patmore was not something Charles Carson had expected to hear anytime soon. Having realized that Denker was supposed to be Downton's cook for this fiasco, he'd finally resigned himself to a fate without any friends. But, upon hearing that blatant tone budging itself toward his ears, he felt almost ecstatic enough to kiss her on the cheek.

"Mrs. Patmore? Thank God!" That only got a glare from the woman as she stowed away some sort of sizzling ladle. Taking one more disbelieving look at Denker, who was now flat on her back, the redhead huffed to herself in incredulity. The real chef of Downton then curtly stepped over the alleged cook, bringing herself officially into his sight.

"That's Fairy Godcook to you, Cindercarson, none of that Mrs. Patmore nonsense! Now, put that silver down and let's get out of here!"

_No –– not_ _ **more**_ _of these shenanigans, please!_ Mindlessly following her instructions and still repeating himself for a second time that evening, "I beg your pardon?"

"Ditch the apron and gloves, and let's get this all sorted out!"

Having forgotten he'd needed those accoutrements for polishing the silver, Charles found himself obeying her again. Yet that didn't mean his mind wasn't continuing to reel with all sorts of questions.

But, first and foremost, "How exactly did you handle Denker?"

"Don't ask questions you don't really want the answers to!"

_._

"So, you're telling me that you're supposed to be my," Since Charles was struggling to find the appropriate words –– having had this problem ever since she'd arrived –– the unfortunate footman settled for outright staring at the woman as he bluntly asked, "My 'Fairy Godcook'?"

"Yes, Cindercarson." Why Mrs. Patmore was also calling him by that stupid name –– much like Barrow, O'Brien, and even Denker insisted on doing so earlier –– he still couldn't figure out. Why this stupid fantasy existed in the first place, for it had to be a ludicrous dream with its ridiculous plot, was also something he'd been unable to comprehend. All the man wanted to do was wake up from it all and get back to reality.

All he seemed able to do was play along with this silly farce.

"And you also mean to tell me that you will have to," _Whack me upside the head_ seemed an appropriate description for the action, but Charles didn't dare utter it. "Bestow your power on me?"

"That's right."

Right. This little sort of fiction hadn't been amusing when O'Brien and Thomas had declared themselves to be housekeeper and butler of Downton. It had become somewhat entertaining, if not a bit alarming upon Mrs. Patmore's unorthodox entrance. But, now? Now it was proving to be far more of an irritant than anything else.

"Please, 'Fairy Godcook'," If he could only wake up from what had to be a dream, he'd find the situation tolerable. As it stood, it was astonishing that the butler had been able to concoct such a bizarre scene in his mind. Frankly, he'd like to think his subconscious wouldn't reduce him to this state of existence, one wherein he had to refer to the cook of Downton in this fashion. "If you cannot find it within you to call me Mr. Carson, please call me Charles."

The man loathed the casual nature that came with hearing his Christian name, not wanting her to cross unspoken boundaries and not wanting to think about the implications. Propriety existed in all forms, even in dreams, and it was to be upheld no matter the cost. Nevertheless, for all the propriety he wished to uphold, he would take being called Charles over "Cindercarson" any day - which was really saying something.

"If you insist, _Charles_." Pointedly staring at her Fairy Godson, the Mrs. Patmore look-alike crossed her arms and waited him out, returning back to the original conversation. "Now, are you going to let me 'bestow' you or not?"

" _Not" is much more preferable, thank you._ "But, what if none of it fits?"

"Haven't I told you time and time again, it all will?"

Yes, she had. And, unfortunately, if that special ladle of his supposed guardian angel did work as she said it would, her scheme would indeed work. His magical clothes would fit and he'd look decent enough to go to this blasted ball and he wouldn't be able to go back to waking up from this nightmare –– the only thing he had wanted to get done since he first caught sight of O'Brien.

But, if that special ladle listened to what the Fairy _Godson_ wanted, the clothes would threaten to rip upon materializing on his person and he would just have to let go of the supposed privilege that came with going to this ball. He'd be forced to call it an early night and then it'd only be a matter

Truly, as much as he enjoyed the style of that sort of ceremony and everything that came with such festivities, Charles really enjoyed presenting it _himself_. There was something about knowing the work that went into the presentation that really did it for him. A sense of accomplishment always came about when all the divine details became entwined together to create a splendid atmosphere of timeless grace.

He had no guarantee of any sort of similar grace by humouring this woman and attending this ball everyone wouldn't shut up about. Quite the opposite, if he were to be candid. The longer his supposed "Fairy Godcook" stood here and informed him of the fact that he simply _needed_ to attend this social festivity, the longer he clung to the belief that it would not be worth it.

"Must I?"

She snorted at this, undoubtedly taking glee from his transparent frustration. Some magical culinary guardian she was turning out to be.

"You wouldn't give me the storage key even though O'Brien had long since promised me I could have it," Why the storage cupboard would have been necessary for the situation –– why _he_ even had the key in the first place –– hadn't made a wink of sense to Charles. Additionally, even though Mrs. Hughes was nowhere in sight, it felt highly inappropriate to be in charge of giving the supposed Fairy Godcook the key. Hence, his forbidding the woman from taking it. "So this is what you get. You can either let me 'bestow you' or you can get sacked when Mrs. O'Brien or Mr. Barrow recognize you at the ball, your choice."

Well, if this bizarre hallucination wasn't coming to an end, it looked like he'd have to get on with it. Nevertheless, if this Mrs. Patmore look-a-like expected him to go dancing in the arms of some random aristocrat –– or, worse still, a member of the house who had wound up in this ridiculous dream –– he'd be drawing a line. There was being foolish by wearing an outfit made for a lord of high degree and then there was outright lunacy. And Charles Carson fancied himself many things –– sharp, clever, distinguished, filled to the brim with decorum –– but a lunatic was not one of them.

Which, speaking of lunacy, "And you're absolutely sure Thomas or O'Brien won't recognize me?"

"Does an apple crumble fall apart?"

Well, _that_ wasn't particularly reassuring.

And, feeling so very odd for adding to her metaphor, "Perhaps we should bake some of the other desserts before getting to the apple crumble, Mrs. Pat–– 'Fairy Godcook'."

"If you say so." Though, the woman didn't really look to care either way.

"I really think so."

"Fine. If that's how you want to play it, that's how we'll play it. Right, we'll need something for the car," Mumbling to herself as though this were a recipe for the kitchen and not for disaster, Beryl looked over their surroundings carefully for anything that could be reconfigured into a worthy vehicle

"A car?" Wasn't this supposed to be a fairy tale? A rendition of _Cinderella_ , if he wasn't mistaken? "Not a carriage?"

Sharply looking at her Fairy Godson in disbelief, "Oh, now you want the full package, do you? A car's not good enough for you, is it?"

"No, I didn't mean that––" But she was already heading toward the room where he'd just finished polishing the silver, stepping over Denker's comatosed body with a distilling ease.

"Oh, no, you're not getting a chance to take it all back. You want a carriage? I'll give ya a carriage!" And, grabbing all of the finished silver, she scooped it all up and headed out for the servants entrance. When he made no move to follow her, "C'mon already! We don't have all day to stare at the turnips!"

Without another word, Charles quickly trailed after her in bewilderment, watching in horror as she dumped all the silver out on the ground without a care.

"Mrs. Pa––" She glared at him, "Fairy Godcook, what _are_ you doing?"

Haphazardly waving her ladle in the direction of the silver before it smacking one of the larger pieces, "I'm giving you your carriage! You didn't think we'd be wasting a pumpkin for this, did ya?"

Within seconds the silver jolted around the ground, fiercely glowing as each individual piece started to evolve into something else. A hint of tangerine sparked into the air as the metal shifted and lurched about, eventually contorting and expanding into a carriage so meticulously, _elegantly_ crafted that even he could appreciate it.

That is, he could appreciate its existence _if_ he ignored the fact that it originated from the silver he'd spent _hours_ polishing.

"Where are you going now?" The woman was stalking back into the house without another word, not even taking a moment to admire her handiwork. "And how do you plan on getting _that_ through that pathway?"

"You can hardly expect to only have a carriage, now can you?" The Fairy Godcook blatantly ignored the second question, still carrying about much like normal. Then he heard something about daft footmen with daft expectations, except the real words were a little more... colorful. Which was shortly followed by yet another tersely colorful rendition of, "You coming or not?"

_._

When the alleged footman had managed to catch up to his magical culinary guardian for a second time in a row, she was once again muttering to herself in consternation, beady eyes raking over the place time and time again.

"Charles," He didn't like the sound of that, "Do you know where that dog is? Isis, I think her name is?"

"Even if I knew, Mrs.–– 'Fairy Godmother', I wouldn't be telling you." He flatly informed her, suspecting where this line of inquiry was leading. "Under no circumstances is Isis to be harmed or turned into anything."

"Fine." The woman acquiesced without much difficulty, crossing her arms in the process as she squarely met his stare, "I just figured, what with your standards, our little cat wouldn't do."

Charles would later cringe, much as the woman suspected he would, at the sight of the kitchen's cat –– also known as the little mangy hellion of the downstairs area –– being transfigured into the coachman for this next bit. But seeing as how he'd already fully committed himself to keeping his Lordship's pet safe and sound, not that he would have dreamed of anything else, there looked to no other convenient alternative.

"Right. Now where are those darn mice?" Glaring at the corners and the cupboards and the places the little devils normally liked to hide, "You'd think when you needed some mice around, they'd actually be here. But, _no_ , they're much like a certain footman –– they're too good to be around when they're needed!"

Now, it was his turn to roll his eyes, finding her behaviour to be distasteful at best and tactless at worst. Still, he was a bit concerned when they didn't find any mice to reshape into footmen for the carriage –– seeing as how there weren't that many other small creatures haunting the downstairs area, it looked like he'd have to go to this ball without footmen.

Though, "Really, if there's none to be found, there's none to be found." _Perhaps now we'll just give up and call it a day?_

"Who complained about not having a carriage?"

"Now, see here, I didn't complain––" But she was long past listening to him, determinedly trekking in the direction of the cellar, "Where are you going _now_?"

_._

Once he reached the bottom of the stairs leading to the cellar, nearly panting from the unexpected exertion, he received a clipped "Carry these!" and half a dozen bottles of his Lordship's Bordeaux as his supposed Fairy Godcook carried only her person back up the steps.

"Aren't you supposed to be able to do magic? Why do you need me to carry these?" Charles faithfully followed her out back outside to where the carriage still stood and the coachman looked a bit bored with the proceedings.

"Set them on the ground." His magical culinary guardian instructed him, giving him no time to protest. Only once she did so did she wave her ladle, the sound of each bottle uncorking itself echoing into the night. And, with sparkles of carrot-like scents drifting through the air, the wine from each bottle rose out of the air to form––

"How is _that_ possible?"

From the six bottles of White Bordeaux came six white horses –– something he found himself feeling conflicted about. On one hand, it was one of the finest creations of magic he'd yet to see. On the other hand, it was his Lordship's Bordeaux. Which, dream or not, would all quite possibly now be spilling across the land whenever this magical spell finally came to an end.

"Are you still questioning me after all this time, Charles?" Frowning as she turned back toward the man, "Well, I'm not really surprised. It is _you_ , after all."

"And what does _that_ mean?" But the woman was far past this conversation, far past it indeed.

"Now, you can hardly be expected to go looking like _that_ can you?" Gesturing to his current livery, she ignored his eyebrows furrowing and bunching up at the sound. "Go on, spin around. You tried to get out of this before, I know, but you're not getting out of this now!"

"'Spin around'?" Charles spluttered, refusing to accept this command. Of all the mortifying actions to take, spinning around as though he were some sort of princess in a fairytale was one of the worst.

"How else am I supposed to change your clothes into appropriate attire?"

"You must be joking," But she persisted in holding out that stupid magic ladle of hers, and there were indeed some peach sparks hissing out of it the more he continued to delay. "You want me to _spin_ around while you magically alter my clothes?"

"It's either that or I summon Mrs. O'Brien back and you get to carry on being fifth footman." And that was no warning coming from the woman; that was a fact.

So much for her playing the role of a compassionate Fairy Godcook.

Scowling at Beryl, eyeing that special ladle of hers with more than a hint of trepidation, Charles straightened his spine and fidgeted with his hands in indignation. "When this _enchanting_ plan of yours fails," He darkly began to inform his magical culinary guardian, internally scoffing at all he has had to endure these last few hours, "Don't blame me."

Snorting in disdain at her alleged Fairy Godson, Beryl briefly looked upwards for strength and watched as he clumsily began to turn around in the space, the movement far too rigid to be called a spin. After letting him carry on for a quarter of a minute, honestly more entertained by this than having a legitimate need for him to spin on the spot, she eventually took pity on him and lightly whacked the man on the head with her ladle in order to get the magic going.

A revitalizing apricot-esque aura started to encircle him, beckoning him to trust this little magical spell of hers. And, with an intensity as invigorating as the sun, the light coaxed the man into giving more effort when it came to twirling around. Bemusedly, Charles let himself follow the path of the light, noticing how his worn-down livery was gradually shifting into something far grander. The fabric seemed to be altering itself, the threads glowing as the material transformed itself. Closing his eyes as the light reached an impossibly fervent glow, he felt a warmth envelope him in a sensation of trust and –– was that traces of apple crumble floating through the air?

Russet irises opened in confusion only to discover a very familiar, very wonderful sight.

"You feel right as rain, don't you?" She knowingly spoke, reminding the man that he wasn't alone. Quickly glancing up at the woman, he continued to calmly listen, "I will say, you _do_ look like you should be the butler, not Mr. Barrow."

"Yes, well, that would be because I _am_ the butler of Downton, Fairy Godcook." He was giving up on calling her anything else, if only because it didn't change anything. And, no, it was certainly _not_ because he was beginning to believe in this ridiculous fairytale. Still, there were more important things to wonder about: "What's this?"

Charles' hands had wandered into his pockets, only to discover something peculiar awaiting him. It was cold and indifferent to his touch, unintentionally beckoning his curiosity forth as he continued to grasp it.

"I figured you wouldn't appreciate glass slippers." He brought the glass pocket-watch out into the open, eyeing it with fascination. It looked to work perfectly fine, even though it also looked to be made of glass. How it could function in such a capacity, he truly did not know. That it was functioning in the first place was all he could comprehend.

"And, I suppose it's to remind me this will all eventually come to an end?"

"Magic does come at a cost, Charles." The magical culinary guardian informed him. "But, just because the magic eventually ends doesn't mean this dream will be over,"

"So, you admit that this is a dream!"

"It hardly matters what I admit or not; what matters is what you do with the time that's been given to you, you daft fool!" Refraining from grinning at the fact that his Fairy Godcook was finally admitting this to be only fantasy, Charles focused instead on his next question.

"If you admit this to be a dream, then you must know how to end it, right?"

She simply shot him a smirk, enjoying her own secret. However, he wasn't deterred in the slightest. Knowing the best way to garner information from the woman before him, he proceeded to declare for all the world to hear, "I know how it ends: all I have to do is remain at the ball until midnight!"

As though right on cue, "Wrong again, Charles! You have to dance with your version of Prince Charming by midnight!" But Beryl was already fiercely scowling seconds after she spoke, immensely frustrated with herself for giving away the secret so soon. Still, whatever frustration she gripped, it could not compare to his own indignation at the thought.

"Fairy Godcook, I will not mortify a member of the Crawley family by dancing with them!" This only brought guffaws into the air, changing the charged atmosphere to that of immense amusement. "Fairy Godcook?"

Somewhat recovering from her fit of laughter, she didn't give him a legitimate answer: "You wouldn't happen to have the time, would you?"

"Very funny." Dryly spoken, the man ignored her encore of snickering by consulting his new pocket-watch once again. "It's already past ten o'clock!"

"Then we best get going, shouldn't we?" Stepping into the carriage, she curtly gestured for him to join her. "Or would you rather sing a song about how impossible this all is?"

"No songs!" If there was one thing Charles wouldn't abide for, it was singing. He appreciated the art from a distance, when it didn't serve to remind him of his shameful past. However, these days, that's all it tended to remind him of. The only thing that was mildly appealing about the craft these days was the idea of conducting, but that was it. Music as a whole, whether it was conducted or sung, was absolutely out of the question tonight. "Though, remind me: how exactly will this carriage fit through that gate?"

"What did I say about trusting me?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:** So, we have a sassy Fairy Godcook, a perturbed fifth footman in disguise, and a pocket-watch made entirely of glass. Any guesses on who Prince Charming will be?
> 
> And, for _Dashing_ fans, I totally did slip in a little shout-out about the series. What can I say? By this point, it should be quite clear that sentimentality and I are very dear friends.
> 
> Regardless, I hope you've enjoyed this little treat and have a nice day! The next chapter should be out sometime tomorrow, Sunday by the latest.


	3. The Ball

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** There are definite elements from _Rodgers and Hammerstein's_ musical as well as Disney's 1997 movie rendition, just as a heads up! Definitely don't own either of those or _Downton_ , but I figured I'd mention it.
> 
> **Word Count:** 5,241

"You mean to tell me," It had taken quite a bit of work getting to this part of the journey. Quite a bit of bickering and threatening via the magic ladle, which was combated with threats about the storage key. But, somehow, they did make it. And they even had a minuscule amount of dignity intact when they finally arrived at their destination. "That the ball is being held at _Downton_?"

The woman threateningly lifted her ladle before deciding to deposit him out of the silver carriage –– and, yes, Charles was still ruminating over the fact that he'd literally just spent half an afternoon polishing that very same silver.

But, to make matters worse, she apparently felt there was no need to offer any other sort of response to his tone. No, his magical culinary guardian only felt content to literally drop her charge onto the gravel and send him on his supposedly merry way –– a decision that did very little to stop his impending questions.

"So, this entire time, we've been headed to Downton?"

Yes, she definitely wasn't going to be dignifying his question with a response. No, his magical culinary guardian was far more satisfied with deflecting his inquiry and instead giving him one of her own: "You ready to dance with the aristocrat of the hour or not?"

"You do realize I will _not_ be dancing with any sort of 'Prince Charming'," The idea had struck him as they were leaving that, if this bizarre fantasy were to continue playing, this ball he'd be attending would involve some sort of aristocrat playing the role of his supposed Prince Charming. Which meant that, at the very least, he'd have to interact with someone who was decidedly above his status, an idea that had _not_ been reassuring. That was, of course, at the very least. There were other alternatives that were far worse. Alternatives that, if Thomas Barrow ever found out about, the man would never cease to remind him of.

"Not my problem," His Fairy Godcook outright retorted, blatantly indifferent to Charles' woes. "Besides, I'm fairly certain this family couldn't get a _Prince_ Charming if they tried."

He confessed to immediately feeling affronted by her slight: he may not be the official butler of Downton tonight, but the Crawleys were still his family. That is, if it were indeed the Crawleys that were residing in the house tonight. If the man wound up discovering that this ball was filled with strangers, he'd be leaving at once. However, if this were a ball filled to the brim with loved ones and old friends, he could admit he'd have a small desire to stay.

Nevertheless, that desire was only tied to an innate need to take care of the people who most resembled a family for him as well as an urge to find some familiarity in this confusion. It had nothing to do with a certain curiosity about exactly why it was so important for him to attend this festivity. Or why his mind had decided to conjure up this fantasy in the first place.

"Are you sure I can't convince you to join me?" Turning around, asking this question with more consideration than he initially anticipated having, Charles found himself disappointed that his Fairy Godcook was now gone with the wind. It only figured his magical culinary guardian would be fixated with getting him here only to disappear once her task was complete.

Pivoting back to the one home he's had for most of his life, the man sighed to himself and straightened his attire for the sixteenth time that hour. Fidgeting with his sleeves, smoothing out any last-minute wrinkles, he decided to head on in and get this matter over with. From his viewpoint, the party looked to be in full swing. Moreover, judging from the music coming through the main entrance hall, now looked to be as good a time as any to investigate the event transpiring.

"Of course I'm not going to miss out on a chance to judge someone else's cooking!" Inwardly grinning at the playful retort, Charles exasperatedly looked back only to discover Beryl hadn't left him for good. She'd just disappeared for a moment to take care of the carriage and make sure those drunken horses of theirs –– an unfortunate side effect of the Bordeaux –– knew where to stay for the evening. "But, by no means am I helping you out anymore! You're on your own from here on out!"

_Right._ Well, at least there'd be one familiar face in the crowd, should the room be infested with strangers. And, letting his Fairy Godcook head into the grand home first, the man found himself waiting just a few more minutes before proceeding to follow her. They could stand to take their time in this matter. After all, it was only about half past ten o'clock. There was no reason to scurry through the proceedings––

"What are O'Brien and Mr. Barrow doing here?" Belatedly, Charles recalled the fact that he'd already been informed of their inevitable presence at the ball. So, when Beryl repeatedly told him as such, reminding the man that the two were overseeing the downstairs aspect of the occasion, he hadn't really been listening. However, whether he was listening or not, there was something unfortunate about the pair's presence: it had only further solidified his desire to stay away from this debacle as a whole.

"Do we really have to go about this the hard way, Charles?"

"I'm not sure what you're talking about––"

"Oh, shut up."

That's when a salmon scent waltzed into the space, smacked him upside the head with that ladle of hers, and whisked them both away to somewhere inside the house. Appalled beyond belief, not only by the scent but by the audacious nature of his magical culinary guardian, Charles could only splutter until turning around revealed the fact that she was once again long gone.

"Mama, I'm not convinced this is the best way to go about the situation. How could I possibly know who I want to marry after only one night?"

To say that relief had flooded the man upon hearing that beautiful brogue was to say that magic could make the impossible possible. That is, until he caught the rest of the statement. Then that magical relief gave way to an overwhelming bewilderment.

_That's not possible––_ "My dear Elsie," Charles blanched at the simpering tone of one Cora Crawley referring to the Scottish woman as such. Keeping well out of sight from the approaching pair, he ducked into one of the closest alcoves afforded to him. It sounded as though the aristocrat was addressing the true housekeeper of Downton as though she were one of her daughters. Stranger still, it sounded as though Elsie were responding in kind.

"My dear Elsie," The American repeated the term, apparently seeing a need to do so. "Whether you find love or not tonight, this is your night to shine as a member of this house. With that in mind, I simply don't understand why you've felt the urge to hide away this evening."

"Mama, I'm just not sure that I can 'shine' when men are being thrown at me left and right––"

"Please, you're never sure about any of this!" Something caustic entrenched Cora's tone, the sound only serving to offend both listeners. But then, the woman tried a different tactic –– quite possibly comprehending that a harsher approach wouldn't work. "Really, my darling, just give this a try. _Edith_ found love when we did this for her last year! And she and Bertie have been happy ever since!"

_What on earth is going on?_ If the implications before him were real, Elsie Hughes has somehow become a member of the Crawley family. Something that shouldn't have been possible and something that made no sense whatsoever, if he were being entirely honest. For one matter, how would she still retain that beautiful brogue of hers if she'd been raised in an English household all these years? Not that he was complaining; complaining about her accent was one of the last things he'd ever want to do. But just because he wasn't complaining didn't he wasn't utterly confused about all of this.

Well, regardless of what he thought possible, this surreal twist of fate looked to be tonight's reality.

"But, Mama, I'm afraid I've a headache coming on."

"Elisabeth Crawley, you're not the type to shirk your responsibilities like this." A sterner version of the American's voice had returned, one that brook no argument. Still, Charles couldn't help but wonder if his colleague was indeed experiencing a headache –– it was possible, although he'd never known her to complain of such a thing. "Just come downstairs and enjoy yourself until midnight. And if your 'headache' is still there by then, then I think you'll be able to lie down. But, darling, the aches of the head always pale in comparison to the aches of the heart."

Charles had almost expected the Scottish Dragon to emerge at this in protestation, knowing that the woman rarely took well to commands disguised as suggestions. However, when silence was the only thing striking the air, he'd almost thought he'd missed her response.

Little did he know, the Scottish Dragon was nowhere in sight tonight.

"All right, Mama," The younger woman eventually conceded, sounding unusually defeated. It was a tone Charles had seldom heard and one he never wanted to. "I do believe my headache is going away."

"I'm glad to hear it."

As the two women began to walk past the hideaway he had tucked himself away in, Charles hardly had time to exhale in relief over the fact that they did not notice him. He hadn't the time, that is, because he was still in the process of understanding what had just happened.

It seemed that Downton's true housekeeper was in fact a member of the house. How she ended up in that position in this dream didn't really matter. What did matter was making sure he remembered this part of the dream. That was so as to eventually inform the real woman of this hilarious plot twist. Perhaps, he would neglect to give her all of the details of the dream, but he at least wanted to somehow share this little fact. Well, perhaps he wouldn't share this detail for fear of causing any form of second-hand embarrassment on either of their behalves. He still wasn't fully sure on that front. In any case, Charles needed to focus on what lay before him. He needed to concentrate on the task at hand. He needed to look out of his alcove and–– and stare right at her stunning attire as it began to float down the stairs.

It was an ethereal silver gown, one in which its shimmering depths reflected inklings of varying hues –– periwinkle, blush, lavender, the palest traces of pastels –– that glowed about the woman as she regally carried herself down the grand staircase. There was no doubt that this was not a frock constructed for the Edwardian Era. It also undoubtedly could not be considered a dress designed for the supposedly Roaring Twenties.

But, it certainly was a gown that had been made for her.

And it also reminded him of his place in this scene. If he was still a servant in this fantasy and she a lady of high degree, he could hardly approach her now. It didn't matter if that was how the dream had to end or if he was currently dressed as an equal of sorts. It would be vastly inappropriate to indulge in breaking the rules of class, even if the Prince Charming equivalent of this story was to be her. Had they both been of equal social status, he'd have no qualms about playing out this exhilarating moment of the tale. However, they weren't equals in this world. And, even in a dream like this, he still felt bound by his responsibilities.

Closing his eyes once again, bemusedly reflecting on the matter, the man remained in the shadows. In all honesty, he hadn't even wanted to be here, not at first. No, he'd only wanted to wake up from this nightmare and reassert his control over the matter instead of letting Barrow and O'Brien bully him around unnecessarily. Instead, he found himself starting to feign enthusiasm over the matter before legitimately beginning to enjoy himself and this little fantasy.

Sighing to no one in particular, Charles unintentionally took in the smell of apple crumble for the second time that night. And, opening his eyes in order to finally detect where the delectable scent was coming from, he proceeded to yelp at the sight of his Fairy Godcook frostily leaning against the wall, ladle glued to her hand for quite possibly the twelfth time that evening.

"Why are you here?" It would have been harsher had he not been aware of where they stood. For, if he were too loud in his beration, his trying to stay hidden would be for naught.

"I'm making sure you don't end up regretting this. Now do I have to whack you on the head again or are you going to walk down those stairs yourself?" Glaring at his Fairy Godcook, the man bristled at the implications.

"I've no right to do this––" Beryl sternly put a hand up, interrupting him before his melodramatic thoughts could make too much of a reappearance.

"According to that conversation of theirs, in less than two hours you won't even get the chance to try. And then you'll be stuck here forever. Do you really want that?" But, the man couldn't let that point of hers be the end of this debate –– he was far too stubborn.

"Why would a lady want to dance with a footman in disguise?"

"Charles, did you not catch the part about what you have to do to end this dream? And, does 'Lady Elisabeth' really look to be all that happy dancing with those 'gentlemen' down there?" Smacking her ladle against the wall, a cantaloupe-esque fog was conjured up and an image appeared in the mist.

The woman in question was spotted dancing in the center of the room –– looking inordinately aloof and irrevocably professional as she swapped out partner after partner. There was no hint of enjoyment or pleasure within her stare; the aristocrat was strictly performing the task demanded of her and looking entirely downcast as she did so.

"But what if she recognizes me as one of her own servants?"

The Fairy Godcook couldn't help her next retort, rather unimpressed with his attitude, "Honestly, whether 'Lady Elisabeth' recognizes you or not, why wouldn't she want to dance with you? For that matter, why can't you take Lady Grantham's advice about having fun until midnight?"

"Because, not only was that advice _not_ intended for me, it's not my place to do so." Though, maybe he'd make it his place - if only to see Lady Elisabeth not look so miserable. There was no legitimate guarantee a lady would want to dance with a footman, even if said footman were disguised. But, perhaps Elsie would like to dance with Charlie. It was probably a foolish inclination to believe and yet he was beginning to cling to it. Still, there was a more pressing matter: "How did you know what her Ladyship said? For that matter, how did you hear their arrangement?"

"A Fairy Godcook never reveals her secrets." Swiftly lifting the ladle, "But if you don't get going, I'll show you what a Fairy Godcook _will_ do."

Hurriedly backing away from the threatening woman, Charles began to trepidly make his way toward the looming staircase that awaited him. There had been many years of interacting with this particular staircase, this old friend of his. And, in all those years, he'd never felt quite so nervous about walking down the wretched thing. Though, as the top of the steps came into sight, the man made sure to carry on with the most dignity he could muster. After all, when one walked around with an undeniably refined sense of style and poise, it hardly mattered their social class.

Still, regardless of that uplifting mentality, he was content to take his time with all of this. After all, it hardly mattered that he wasn't scurrying down the steps. Or so he told himself for the seventh time that evening.

Well, the truth was, Charles was right in assuming he could take his time.

However, that would only be because the ball was in utter chaos.

For the last five minutes, Lady Elisabeth had been methodically rotating dance partners as though they were linen to be taken care of. It was not dancing that she performed; it was a frenetic sense of working diligently to the system of sound provided. It was a matter of officially determining the conclusion she already knew by heart: not a soul she had been dancing with was one she would truly care to know. Therefore, due to her mechanical and fastidious movements brought about by some form of duty, nearly no one took note of the unfamiliar figure entering the hall from an entrance only granted to the family.

Nevertheless, that did not mean his entrance had gone unnoticed. For blue eyes had glimpsed the abnormal movement the second it appeared, inherently recognizing the unfamiliarity in the act. Curious irises turned toward the stranger, the woman finding herself letting her current dance partner –– a rather antiquated Sir Anthony –– trip over his feet and out of her arms. And celestial skirts gently swished about as an intrigued soul turned to the grand staircase, oblivious to the now halted festivities.

At an outward glance, there was nothing different about the man approaching her. Nothing at all would distinguish him from all the other men in the room. Perhaps he looked a little greyer in the hair than most, perhaps his gait was a bit more aged. But, still, she found herself willingly giving away her full attention as he gracefully made his way down the stairs. And as this gentleman approached this lady, a sense of déjà vu coaxed her into gliding toward him. It were as though she had already known him for years, as though she'd interacted with him for a lifetime and had carried a love for him long before this meeting.

"Good evening," She smoothly began, unexplainably overwhelmed by the familiarity before her and feeling rather unsure of where to begin. How does one address a perfect stranger that one feels as though they've known for years?

"How do you do, Lady Elisabeth?" Watching him bow respectfully, as though he were a servant undeserving of her attention, one conclusion was provided for the aristocrat: she found she didn't care for such rigid formality, such tiring pomposity.

Especially not when it came from him.

"Please," The woman calmly began to offer, the Scottish lilt a symphony to his ears. "Call me Elsie."

Now holding out a hand with bated breath, her heart soared in delight as he accepted it with a softly spoken, "Then, please, call me Charl–– Charlie."

"Charlie," The beam that was overtaking her face had long since enchanted him. Nobody else in the entire world mattered for those precious few seconds, nobody but the woman before him and the man before her. "Shall we dance, Charlie?"

He could've settled for something charmingly witty, something with an acerbic quality that still conveyed a sense of fondness. However, having never had this sort of opportunity before with her, he couldn't say anything. He could only nod with great adoration and gratitude for this chance. Though, because it was Charles, he had to muster out something:

"Yes."

Within heartbeats they were off, waltzing together as though they'd known each other for decades. Flying across the floor and into the sky, they could have been twirling on top of mountains, whirling about meadows, or even spinning over glens for all the affection that swirled around them.

"It's strange, but I feel as though I've met you somewhere before," She confessed after a time, acknowledging the fact that being in his arms felt as familiar as living in this house. Yet, how could this be, what with this being their first meeting?

"I'm sure I would remember." Still, there seemed to be traces of cheekiness in his tone, inklings of knowledge that had her smiling in fascination. It sounded as though this gentleman of hers was equally aware of the familiarity drifting around them, his assured tone prompting her to wade into a further inquiry.

"Was it perhaps last summer, at Brancaster?" Though their late summer visits tended to be in September, the family had decided to journey in late August instead. Thus, it was quite possible they'd encountered one another at that time. Though she felt almost certain she'd remember someone like him.

"No, I'm afraid I've no reason to travel that far North." _My, my._ There weren't many other opportunities for them to have met. And had it been during the Season, there certainly would have been no reason for this ball to have commenced.

"Then it must have been this winter, at Duneagle." This brought forth a delightful chuckle, one that informed her of the answer long before he spoke.

"Elsie," There came that teasing quality, one that peeked through supposedly impartial tone, "If I've no reason to travel to Brancaster, why would I set eyes on Duneagle?"

She acknowledged her mistake with an exasperated smile, chuckling at the thought as he spun her about. Though she was normally not one for being guided about the dance floor, she found her current dance partner was one who didn't guide her, per se. Rather, he simply encouraged her to follow his lead.

"While I can't speak of Brancaster," Unintentionally informing him a prim witticism was on the way, she maintained a twinkle in her eyes even as her overall demeanour reflected perfect indifference, "The mountains that surround Duneagle are quite beautiful, making the distance of little consequence."

Emboldened by this openly spoken compliment, knowing this to only be a sweet dream, the man felt it was perfectly acceptable to share a comment that'd been dwelling in his mind for years, "Perhaps. However, I find any mountain pales in the comparison of _your_ beauty."

At the sight of that gorgeous blush emerging, Charles inclined his head away –– knowing her to be quite a proud woman who didn't care to be publicly caught off-guard. And as he kept his gaze respectfully away, he also remembered where he was and just who he was dancing with.

This was in addition to recalling the numerous people scattered about the room, individuals staring him down ever so intently.

"I confess," The man uneasily began to admit as they swayed around a horde of onlookers, a wariness overtaking his stride, "I'm not used to such attention. I do believe everyone's staring at us."

"Really?" The blush remained as clear as day but her gaze unabashedly carried on looking straight at him. "With you by my side, I'd forgotten there was anyone else in the room."

Now it was _his_ turn to blush as she subtly led him into trusting her step once more. And soon enough, he was reminded of the truth of the matter: whether people stared or not, this was all a rarity in itself. And, as his Fairy Godcook had incessantly reminded him, this would be over the moment their dance ended. Therefore, why not alter this scene a little? Allow himself to remain in her arms for once, let this sweet fantasy carry on uninterrupted?

Truly, there was no harm in giving into this little dream of theirs.

Happily enthralled by the moment before them, the two carried on in these precious steps spent together. They liked the sensation so well that, for all they could tell, they would never want to return to any version of earth again. Indeed, both instinctively knew they'd rather float about the floor for as long as they possibly could than risk returning to whatever had once been reality.

"Shall we?" Indicating the way that would lead to the gardens, a path that would afford them some semblance of peace this evening, Elsie watched Charles nod his assent. Though, when she went to slow down in dancing –– content to walk alongside him instead of sway through the grounds –– he carried the tempo of their dance and beckoned her to follow in his steps.

"Shall we waltz out together?" This statement once again toyed with cheekiness, but his real reason was to keep all of this going. The fact that she chuckled once more at this, willing to dip into a sentimental mood if it afforded them this, only had him beaming in absolute contentment. Yet their spinning would have to come to an end eventually. For, upon arriving outside, they had nearly collided into a pair of rather deviant individuals.

In other words, they'd crossed paths with the current senior staff of Downton.

"Mrs. O'Brien? Barrow?" Elsie pursed her lips questioningly, Charles inwardly cringing at the sound. Seriously, he hadn't a clue as to why he had made _O'Brien_ of all people the housekeeper of Downton in this dream, especially seeing as how she was supposed to be in India now. Truly, it was as flummoxing a thought as having Barrow be the butler. "Is everything all right?"

"Perfectly all right, milady." _This_ term of address did have the man mentally snort in disbelief as he found himself eternally grateful Elsie still outranked the two. Yet that didn't mean he wanted to spend the brief time he had left here dealing with these two charlatans.

Nor did he want to give either of them a chance to recognize his own disguise.

"Yes, well, I'm not sure this is preferable to the indoors," Charles was not above using the cold as an excuse to walk away from these two servants. Though, he somewhat regretted stating as such once he caught sight of a familiar frown. It seemed the aristocrat did not particularly care for essentially running away, even if she did want to be left alone with him. "I believe it is a bit too chilly for my tastes."

"I suppose we ought not to risk it," She dryly conceded, managing to convey her faint disapproval toward his comment even as she demurely smiled at the pair of servants, bidding them a pleasant night.

"I do apologize, Lady––," These words were out of his mouth the moment the pair was back inside.

"As I said before, it's Elsie," She really wasn't in the mood to go back to such formalities. In fact, she was even silently striking up another dance between them, offering her hand in lieu of officially asking. "And, there's nothing to apologize for: I've never cared much for Mrs. O'Brien. It was Mama who was adamant she become the housekeeper. And though Mr. Barrow seems to redeem himself on occasion, I still have no desire for his company."

"Does he now? Redeem himself, that is." The aristocrat regally arched an eyebrow at this –– prompting an internal sigh of contentment from him as they dipped back into their waltz. But before she could continue to elaborate, they were being separated by her well-meaning parents. Soon enough, the two elder Crawleys were slipping into the dance, separating the pair, and taking control of the conversation.

"I do hope Lady Elisabeth has been kind this evening," Cora spoke bluntly now that they were out of her daughter's earshot, frustrating Charles more than he thought possible. While he could understand that the American would be concerned about orchestrating a successful evening for her daughter, he did not care for the unintentional patronization that came alongside such concern.

"Oh, but, of course, Lady Grantham. She's been simply enchanting," What had started off as a defense for Elsie had shifted into a tender admission of sorts. Lady Grantham hardly seemed to mind either way, judging from that gleam in her eyes.

"Should I dare to say that she appears rather smitten with you?" Remembering that Lady Grantham would hopefully once again be his employer in only a little while, Charles managed to maintain a cordial smile and a simple nod of agreement, not daring to risk anything else. "I must say: it's rather strange, but it's as though you've appeared here by magic."

The statement had stirred a timorous recognition within the man, though he had no time to dwell upon the matter. Meanwhile, only a couple of paces away, Lord Grantham was trying to distract his daughter to no real avail.

"What on earth is Mama saying to him?"

"Does it make a difference, my darling?" Trying a different tactic, "Your mother informs me that you've been enduring a headache this evening; would you rather not lay down and give yourself a rest?"

Half of a protest formed on her lips before the daughter realized her father was only teasing. That still didn't stop her from actually protesting when he smoothly stepped away and joined Charles in an effort to interro–– properly acquaint himself with this gentleman.

"I must ask: do we know your mother or father?"

"Oh, I don't believe so, Lord Grantham," Charles was becoming a bit apprehensive, unsure of why Lord Grantham was asking for such personal information. And though he was essentially lying to his lordship –– his parents were the reason Downton had become his home –– this felt perfectly acceptable within the current circumstances.

"You must introduce us! Where are they?"

"Well," For someone of his height, it should have been impossible for him to act sheepish or unsure of himself. Nevertheless, at the realization that this dream wasn't ending even though he'd already long since finished dancing with Elsie, "Actually, I do apologize, Lord Grantham, but will you excuse me?"

And before Lord Grantham could say otherwise, Charles had swiftly departed from the main part of the hall, disappearing into the path that would lead to the gardens.

"Papa!" The reprimand was barely uttered before Lady Elisabeth decided it would be far more useful to follow the departing man than scold her father for whatever blunder he'd inevitably made.

"Well, graceless exits aside, I think he's a perfect gentleman, don't you?" It seemed Cora had already made a decision about the matter, choosing to accept this stranger as is. Besides, she knew as well as her husband did that when Elsie Crawley had made a decision, there was little to be done about it. It also just so happened that this was a decision Cora Crawley whole-heartedly approved of. But that was besides the point. Obviously.

"Perhaps a little more wary than I'd care for, but I've no complaints."

The American lightly scoffed at this utterance, a faint twinkle in her eye.

"I seem to recall a certain fortune hunter acting in a similar fashion once upon a time." Lady Grantham knowingly murmured as the two turned to watch their daughter determinedly stride toward the gardens.

"Do you now?"

And as the easy banter of Lord and Lady Grantham carried on into the night, a far less pleasant conversation began to clumsily bounce about the gardens….

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note:** You may have some questions, understandably so. I happen to have a chapter for you that should, if all goes according to plan, will be posted sometime tomorrow! And, yes, it will be the final chapter of this little adventure!
> 
> In any case, as always, I hope you have enjoyed this and have a lovely day! 


	4. The Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Thank you for your continued support with this little tale! As the clock creeps closer to midnight over here, I am pleased to announce that this is indeed the last chapter. And it is one that I really hope you enjoy.
> 
> **Word Count:** 5,589

"But what do you mean you want to wake up? It's not midnight yet!"

"Didn't you say it would end after dancing with her?" His conversation with his employers had stirred to life a horrid reminder: even if this were all a dream, he would remember it well. Therefore, how could he possibly walk through reality in his typical fashion if these imaginations were to rampantly overtake his mind? The idea of masquerading as an equal to his lordship, the thought that he somehow felt above his station, these were not concepts he needed floating around him after waking up. Besides, he fulfilled his mission; he should've been gone from this delightful fantasy ages ago. "I understand that you can only control the magic to a certain extent. But surely now that I've finished my task I can wake up now?"

"You mean, you want to just leave? Give this all up?"

"You know as well as I that I am not who these people believe me to be." And perhaps that would have been fine an hour or so ago. But now that he found himself deeply embedded in this charade of a situation, he couldn't help but need to escape it.

"All they're believing you to be is an utter gentleman," Beryl retorted, alleviating some of his distress. And though she hadn't outright addressed his second question, she wasn't done speaking just yet, "And, I may or may not have been wrong about how to end this."

_Oh, no, you don't!_ "What do you mean you 'may have been mistaken'?"

"It happens on occasion, I'll have you know!" Then, a bit more sheepishly, knowing that anger wouldn't get them anywhere, "I really don't remember if you've got to kiss her or if you can just wait it out 'till midnight and wake up when the magic goes away."

_What?_ "'Kiss her'?" He repeated, scandalized. "Kiss Mrs. Hughes? What about simply dancing with her?" _Something, I might add, I've already done! Twice now, technically!_

"Kiss Lady Elisabeth Crawley, that's right." She shot right back at him, crossing her arms once again. "Because if you didn't wake up after dancing with her, then I was wrong about that."

The man was opening his mouth to protest the very idea, the whole concept disconcerting in light of this charade, but she was already beating him to the punch.

"Charles. Live for once, all right?" Thinking her statement over, recalling a memory, "And don't take my statement to mean that I want you to settle for holding her hand."

Indignantly blushing, swiping aside the sands of _that_ particular memory, "How could you possibly know about _that_?"

But before he could receive an answer, his blessed Fairy Godcook disappeared in another puff of sweet potato –– leaving him to stand awkwardly in the gardens. His options were to either fret about just how the woman knew about that particular moment or fret about his change in mission. Either way, fretting by himself was in his future, that was a fact.

Though luckily, or unluckily perhaps, he wasn't left to his own devices for too long.

"I do hope we've not scared you away."

"Of course not!" Elsie couldn't scare him away. She could intimidate him and, honestly, _had_ intimidated him for years. She could silence his thoughts with the barest hint of her infamous ire. But, never in all the time of their knowing each other, had the woman been able to send him scurrying away in abject terror. Usually quite the opposite, in fact.

Nevertheless, as happy as the traitorous part of his mind was at the sight of her, the more rational part of him was very quick to remind the man of one thing:

The sooner they could all return to reality the better. There'd be less of a chance for him to forget his place in the world, less mortification all around, really.

"Please," Hurrying her pace so as to properly join his side, completely oblivious as to what had initially driven him to the gardens, "I'm afraid I'm not sure as to what my parents may have said to you, but I apologize for their words."

"'Apologize'? No, they were perfectly delightful!" She still didn't believe him, rightfully so. Which meant that he had to say something more, had to try to convey the truth, "There's nothing to apologize for––" Not wanting to repeat her exact words from earlier, having no desire to seem impertinent by parroting her words, "Elsie, there's nothing to forgive."

At this remark, the woman couldn't help but gaze at him in faint bemusement. She had never encountered quite a soul like his before, one that was so serious and yet so authentic in nature. She found herself greatly appreciating it, even if she questioned her luck in this regard: "Do you really mean that, Charlie?"

"I do."

Those two words eased the last of her tension away even as the pair had remained stuck where they stood. Soon enough, it would only take a few more minutes for the woman to make a decision about what to do next.

"Would you care to take a turn in the gardens? It seems to have warmed up since last we were outside."

It hadn't really warmed up, but he was willing to ignore that fact if it meant he could partake in her company. Because, as confusing as this dream was and as conflicted as he felt about practically everything, Charles still wanted to be with Elsie any way he could.

"I would."

Nevertheless, it was only once they were seated on one of the many benches scattered about the grounds that their conversation could be brought back to life.

"To tell you the truth," She eventually confessed, looking off toward the starlit sky with more than a hint of hesitation, "I had half a mind to escape all of this tonight."

_I know_. Still, he couldn't admit as such. It would only provoke questions he wasn't prepared to answer just yet. Therefore, he could only grasp his pocket-watch as a reminder of reality and ask, "But, how could a lady not appear at her own ball?"

_Quite easily._ "There are ways of avoiding appearances when one wishes to. And, in this instance, this evening felt a little too medieval to do otherwise." Pausing, so unusually reticent. "I know that may seem an odd opinion, seeing what sort of life I have to lead. But, if I'm going to spend my life with someone I'd like to be sure about it all. I mean, what would it be like,"

Trailing off a bit, she let silence take over as she searched for the appropriate term.

Fortunately, he had a good guess.

"Being stuck with someone forever?" Charles finished her statement after a few seconds of peace, garnering an appreciative nod for his efforts. Replacing the pocket-watch back to where it belonged, content to forget about the time for a moment, "Well, I imagine that, if you do know you're sure of the decision, it can be something indescribably wonderful."

"Something that fills you with joy?"

"That, and has you bursting with pride, I'd imagine." Beaming at the understanding that passed between them, Elsie couldn't help but continue to look at Charles in wonderment. Never before had she had such a forthcoming conversation with someone, never before had it felt this effortless to describe her feelings on what was considered a deeply intimate and strictly taboo idea.

"I would hope so," The lady tentatively agreed, thinking of other matters as well. Other matters such as what would traditionally follow a night like this. And upon seeing his encouraging gaze, one that told her it was safe to share her thoughts, "Before tonight, I don't think I really imagined such a life to be possible. But, if I were to ever propose marriage,"

"You? Propose marriage?"

"Hush, you daft traditionalist." Though, the hesitant smile informed the man she was regretting speaking to him as such, quite possibly thinking herself to be treading on dangerous ground with the unusual endearment. Well, they couldn't have that, now could they?

"Might I remind you that I am _your_ daft traditionalist?" Even if this life went no further than this moment spent in the gardens, this moment between a lady and a footman in disguise, he would always be hers in any capacity allowed to him. Furthermore, this served to remind her that it was perfectly fine to refer to him as such –– though he doubted she'd do that again anytime soon. Either way, Charles was relieved to hear her eventually chuckling at his remark, the air releasing the tension it had nearly strangled.

"If marriage were ever to be proposed," Charles gently smiled at her slight change in words, appreciating her consideration even if he didn't really mind the thought of her being the one to propose marriage. Strangely enough, he deemed unorthodox actions as absolutely acceptable if they involved her. "I would want it to be a certainty. Something that both parties involved were absolutely sure about."

"Of course."

"And it couldn't be decided over the course of a single night." She added, a knowing glint in her eyes helping to tease the matter. "Even if all seemed perfect for one night, I would want more time to really get to know the man."

"How about ten years or so?" There was a reason behind this question, one he hadn't fully grasped until he released the inquiry from his mind. For Charles could now recognize that there was a newfound curiosity growing within him from the moment they'd begun to dance:

They'd known each other for more years than he could count. Yet, only in the last ten or so did the man even begin to get a hint that, maybe, just maybe there laid a possibility for them he hadn't previously considered. And perhaps he ought to have regretted being forward this evening. However, with the undignified chortle now leaving her lips, one that carried a great sense of tickled amusement, he found himself carrying no regrets about this query.

"Ten years is a long time, Charlie! What exactly did you have in mind?"

Knowing he had the perfect chance to bring solemnity into the conversation by lecturing on how life could change in a heartbeat, much like she would've, he decided to walk down a somewhat lighter path:

"I only want to ascertain a timeline."

Or, at least, he had hoped for a lighter path. Now that he had spoken, the man felt that it all sounded far too serious for his liking.

"'Ascertain a timeline'?" Letting her amused curiosity fade into the stars for a brief moment, she brought them down that more serious path he'd expected, "I do hope your life has been more than a 'timeline'."

Because, if it all has only been a timeline for the man, then she felt sorry for him. And she felt even sorrier for the life she imagined, the life she'd inadvertently drawn up at the sound of a 'timeline'.

Without wanting to, Elsie had managed to conjure up a curious vision of the man beside her at the thought of his life being a mere structure of time. This vision was one wherein he'd somehow managed to traipse through the world with a sense of responsibility and orderliness sketched into his blood. One in which life was much like her first half of this evening's ball: a tedious ordeal that called for mechanical movements and meticulous thoughts. In any case, while she didn't think her imagination fully described what his life has been as of now, she couldn't help but wonder how accurate the assessment was.

Still, even if that was more accurate than she might've liked, Elsie also liked to believe that that life of his could change. That, if it wasn't terribly forward of her to leap so far in imagination, she could see a life between the two of them. That there could the sounds that only came with deeply intimate conversations, that the taste of domestic life could exist for them both. That there was a chance for the scent of dinners cooked between them and opportunity for a touch she'd never before experienced.

She thought the idea was far too much for only one evening of conversation.

Yet she still also wondered if he had felt the same. If he ever wondered similarly. If, in the course of these precious few minutes, he carried his own "terribly forward" thoughts about a life together between the two of them.

Unbeknownst to her, in his eyes, he has only seen a captivating beach throughout their time together tonight. He has only heard the sound of a business investment and a smoothing iron, could only taste an air filled with burnt toast. And it is only that delectable scent of lemon that was undeniably hers that has reached him, a scent accompanied by the kind hand that has offered itself to him unquestioningly time and time again.

"You know, Charlie, I'm not normally one for wishing," The woman quietly let the words slip into the night after a time, feeling unusually vulnerable in the presence of this man. "But, even so, I find myself wishing that–– that..."

"You know, Elsie," He wasn't intentionally trying to mimic her, it just sort of came out that way. He also hadn't meant to toss her wish aside by speaking up now instead of letting her continue. It was just that wishing had been on the forefront of his mind all night. It had stalked his thoughts up until the moment she had taken his hand. And it was within this moment that the concept of wishing was once again rearing its ugly head in his mind. "The issue with wishing is that it doesn't guarantee any action. If people took action half as often as they wished for change, the world would be an infinitely different place."

Of course, he was one to talk. Especially considering his actions tonight, or lack thereof. The weight of the pocket-watch pressing into him was sure to remind him of that. Yet, even though he couldn't act on that principle every time, the man really was beginning to believe that sentiment.

And it looked like she might be, too.

Blinking in surprise at the calm statement, the woman shocked him for a second time that night with six plainly spoken words. These words were occasionally offered to him in the course of the decades they'd spent working together, yet they were inherently as rare as this dream:

"I do believe you are right."

Those words would have been more disorienting than witnessing her for the first time tonight. However, it was her next words that truly began spin all thoughts out of his mind.

"Charlie, may I ask you a question?" The inordinately wistful quality was not lost on him. Nor the fact that her gaze had fervently grown with the type of determination he rarely had the pleasure of witnessing –– the type that informed him he was going to be spellbound to whatever she had to say next.

"Of course."

Pausing, biting her lip in that way she almost always did when nervous, a familiar sight that did wonders for his heart, "Do you not suppose it's possible to meet someone and know in an instant that they are 'the one'?"

Maybe there should have been hesitation on his part. Perhaps Charles might've found peace in the matter by opting for an impartial response or something that would inherently change the subject. All he found himself saying was his own six little words:

"I think it is very possible."

Encouraged by this, Elsie felt safe enough to make one more confession, "This may seem strange, but I feel as though as I'm a different person when I'm with you." The man gave a bemused smile at this, proud of instigating that feeling within her, especially in a fantasy like this. He could only hope the real woman felt similarly. "Perhaps it's that I am only ever really myself when I am around you. Not the person that people suppose me to be, but the person that––" Breaking off into the night, hints of a deprecating chuckle or two grasped the rest of her original statement. "I can only suppose I'm not making much sense, am I, Charlie?"

"Actually," Knowing that he needed to emphasize how much he understood her, Charles took his time with speaking so as to demonstrate the truth of the matter, "You're making perfect sense, Elsie."

_And that may be exactly what's so petrifying about this. That perfect sense may be precisely what's making me so desperate to wake up._ Because it was all too easy for them, too effortless for their life, and far too luxuriant for who they were.

"It's peculiar really," Elsie began once more, looking toward the ground in an effort to avoid the atmosphere that was now engulfing them. "We spend almost our entire lives in search of people who are wonderful, people we want to love as much as we can for as long as time will allow. But do we _really_ want them in our lives? Would we really like to be stuck with them for as long as we possibly can?"

"Or," He faithfully continued the line of thought, having occasionally wondered this himself, "Do we only crave the _idea_ of being stuck with someone? And, then, does that craving makes that one person wonderful, regardless of reality?"

"Perhaps this is all just imagination at its finest," Elsie concurred, her smile fading for a moment as she rose to her feet. Suddenly pushing away her wishes, the woman began to remorsefully accept the situation's sudden change in attitude and prepare herself for its inevitable end, "Perhaps we are simply so desperate to find love in the world that we will invent it whenever it suits us most?"

"Or, perhaps," Why his bravado had suddenly returned to him, forcibly prompting him to counter this little argument of hers, he couldn't explain. All Charles knew was that he was now standing right beside her and even daring to respond to the contrary, "It's only a matter of finding the right love for us. Finding the right love _as well as_ a reality that would not only suit us but _is_ in fact possible."

"Perhaps." Turning back to him, Elsie found herself unable to look away from the man now by her side. Although she remained taciturn in her thoughts, she couldn't deny that his presence so close at hand was re-igniting her hope. And with such a wonderful presence beside her, it suddenly made it all the easier to try this final idea:

"Charlie, may I make a suggestion you may find to be far too forward and are well within reason to reject?"

Now, _that_ was quite the request. One that he found himself unusually willing to explore in light of this conversation, especially considering how straightforward the woman before him tended to be. His heart may be ticking at the pace of an errant clock, but he wasn't about to let that stop him from at least hearing her out.

"You may, Elsie."

She briefly smiled, gathering some last ounces of strength before uttering, "May I kiss you?"

There had been no decision to be made. Not now, when lips were already reaching out to chastely caress one another, not when this intimacy of theirs gently blanketed any protest –– the air now taken with a trust that this would all work out so very, very beautifully.

That's when the clock of the house struck twelve, the pocket-watch resolutely glowing in response.

As the first note rung about, Charles felt a familiar amber light envelope him once more. And though he did faintly try to pull away from the kiss –– in an effort to fulfill his duty and ensure this dream would finally come to an end –– he didn't truly want to part from those lips. He didn't want to let this embrace fade into the darkness, didn't want this moment to be only a fleeting invention of that lovely dream they'd only just spoken of.

The third note announced its presence, bringing a certain determination with it.

Well, the truth was, neither did she. Lady Elisabeth didn't want to let go of this delightful fantasy that had felt right from the moment it had begun. She didn't want to surrender her connection with the first person who had ever treated her like an individual, not a symbol of status or a prize to be won. And she so very much wanted to fervently continue embracing this stranger who was as familiar to her as her own heart.

The sixth note echoed its predecessors, that amber glow expanding.

So, even as worn-down livery shifted back into existence once again, they continued to hold onto one another. Despite the man recognizing the pressing reality that came with these wearisome clothes, despite the seventh note threading itself into their minds, he remained embroidered to her touch. And, much to his ever-expanding delight, so did she. Whether or not Lady Elisabeth paid any heed to his change in wardrobe, the woman was perfectly indifferent to such superfluous details. In fact, she was only all too content to continue keeping her eyes firmly closed, letting her arms remain wrapped around the man as lips continued to meet lips.

The eighth and ninth notes reverberated with feigned impartiality, the watch's glow now catching the gaze of the crowd inside the house.

"What the?" Incognizant of the growing pandemonium that was rising from within the house –– all attendees of the ball were realizing with a daunting sense of horror just who Lady Elisabeth had fallen in love –– the couple continued to remain in one another's soothing arms, delving as much as they possibly could into this heavenly opportunity as the tenth and eleventh note sounded.

As the twelfth note of the clock echoed about Downton, something positively unfathomable occurred. A waft of apple crumble carried itself in the breeze; with it, came trailing hints of a familiar fiery light –– a striking glow reminiscent of the sun. And as the breeze picked up around the couple, swirling about as though ushered in by magic, clothing transformed one final time. What was a footman's dreary livery was now lovingly stitching itself into that of a butler's impeccable uniform. And what had been a silvery, ethereal gown was now divinely altering itself into a wonderfully familiar black dress –– complete with the chatelaine that had always held the key to his dreams.

"Charlie," It was the sweetest sound the man had ever heard, a tender lilt that languidly caressed every letter within his Christian name. At this delightful murmur, the man warmly opened his eyes once again to realize he'd been sleeping on his arms the entire time and was past the point of regretting it. "Char–– Mr. Carson, it's past midnight! How on earth did we both fall asleep?"

Dazedly raising his head up from the desk and shaking his arms back to life, the butler sleepily met the eyes of his beautiful wife –– great ecstasy rising within him as he caught sight of the vision before him: Elsie had indeed fallen asleep on herself much like he had, unintentionally winding up tucked away in that chair across from him. And at the sight of her drowsily looking around, her hair unwittingly mussy and her eyelids fluttering at half-mast, he couldn't help the adoration that rose within him.

Apparently, household affairs had ceased to be a riveting affair these days.

The truth was he couldn't bring himself to really care about any of that anytime soon.

"I don't think that really matters, Elsie," Charles confessed, just relieved to be back in normalcy. And swiftly rising to his feet, relievedly remembering they had been married for some time now, he brought his wonderful wife to her feet and twirled her about the pantry as though they were still at that ball –– tickled by her incredulous delight at the movement.

"Now I know something's wrong." The housekeeper declared, though her perplexed words were mostly spoken only to tease the man. "We've not danced like this since–– well, I can't recall a time we ever danced like this!"

"Not at all," The butler gently protested, "Less than ten minutes ago, I was holding you in my arms like so." Demonstrating the embrace that he had experienced for that blissful eternity, Charles's beam only expanded as Elsie eventually allowed herself to sink into his arms –– the woman deciding she could enjoy this as much as her husband seemed determined to.

Now, that didn't mean she wasn't contemplating the matter over with great curiosity. Truthfully, she did find herself quite surprised at both of their unusually impertinent actions. But an even stronger feeling that was coming about was that of immense satisfaction they _could_ act like this. And though she was still not sure why her husband felt the urge to say such outlandish things at this late hour, she cherished it all ever so deeply.

In any case, Elsie knew Charles and his typical dreams: they normally involved the silver, the wine, Downton, a grand festivity, or all of the above –– not some sort of sweeping romantic venture. That wasn't to say she never featured in his dreams, only that it was seldom in this capacity. Nevertheless, that also wasn't to say that she minded this unusual shift in attitude. And, furthermore, seeing as how the work of the day had long since been wrapped up, it wasn't as though they couldn't enjoy this little spell of novelty.

"Were you now?" Managing to discreetly close the door to his pantry with the heel of her shoe, strangely feeling audacious enough to ignore the fact that they really ought to be heading back to their cottage by now, "And was there anything else you were doing then, ten minutes ago?"

"Well, now that you mention it…."

_And They Lived As Happily Ever After As They Could._

_For, Even With The Inevitable Disagreements and Bickering,_

_They Both Made An Effort to Devotedly Love One Another_

_Till The End of Their Days._

.

.

.

**_._._._**

**The Bonus [Inspired By a Certain Guest Reviewer] –**

Eventually they had to traverse the path that would lead back to their own little cottage tucked away in their own little corner of the world. They could bask in the unexpected novelty for only so long before the enchantment had to dissipate. Though, that wouldn't stop Charles from elaborating on his dream _as well as_ linking arms with her without a second thought.

"And _you_ were a member of the family."

She gave a low chuckle at this, practically rolling her eyes at the silly tale even as her focus remained solely on him.

"I most certainly was not! 'A member of the family'? I can't even imagine it, Charlie."

He shook his head fondly at the thought, the excitement from that shocking moment having long since subsided. He could still picture that whole scene and recreate it now, imagining what shades of color that stunning gown of hers would've reflected in this peaceful moonlight. He could recall how easily she passed for an upstairs member of the house, how effortlessly they waltzed into the evening, and divine that experience had been once he had allowed himself to enjoy it.

"Yes, well, Lady Elisabeth Crawley was quite the sight. And, you'll be pleased to hear that she didn't bow to the pressures of finding a husband on the spot."

This garnered a nod of approval from the woman in question, the Scot pleased to hear that she hadn't completely given into the expectations of the upper classes. If nothing else, this description sounded fairly accurate in her eyes.

"Of course she didn't. She already knew she had the right one waiting for her. And I might add I'm quite certain she knew she wasn't meant to be just a lady."

He echoed her nod quite easily, pride and adoration sneaking into his beaming gaze. Perhaps he would have defended the thoughts of being "just a lady"; as it stood in this moment, he was far too pleased with everything to give a flying fig.

"Well, now that you mention it," Pausing his statement, making sure she could catch the facetious quality buried within his tone, "I'd say you're right."

Content to pretend to be stunned and wait for whatever punchline was just around the corner, "Really now?"

Charles nodded once more quite seriously, "Indeed. In fact, I would actually say that she was meant to be more than 'just a lady'."

"Oh?"

The man brought them to a stop, making sure that she understood he was being perfectly serious about what he was about to say. That she understood this sentiment was coming from his heart, that he wasn't saying something just for the sake of it.

"Yes." Cupping a hand to her cheek, resisting the urge to kiss her just yet, "Because, if this dream has reminded me of anything, it's that Elsie Hughes is _my_ lady. And say what you will about that, but that does make _all_ the difference."

Charles didn't need the moonlight to trace every inch of that growing blush of hers. Nor did he need to be looking in her direction to see those lips of hers be bitten in such an endearing fashion. He chose to anyway. Chose to breathe in the wonderful sight of his wife before, chose to close the distance between them and chose to tenderly bring his lips to hers once more.

When they finally parted for air and she at last recovered from the surprising sweetness of it all, "I do have one question for you, Charlie."

"What is it, Elsie?"

"Well," The woman began, a hint of mischief in her eyes, "If this story of yours was supposed to be like Cinderella's, where were the glass slippers?"

He chuckled at this, "Now that you mention it––"

But the man couldn't continue.

He was far too shocked by a discovery, far too taken aback for further words.

"Charles? Is everything all right?" She clearly noticed his own growing shock as a large, fidgeting hand slowly began to bring something out of his pocket.

"Impossible." The man muttered in disbelief, eyeing the pocket-watch as it coolly gazed back at him as though this were an every day occurrence. "This is absolutely impossible."

"Charlie?" She took a step closer, sharply picking up the pieces of this strange puzzle, "Don't tell me," But she sensed she'd be getting an answer soon enough. And, so, she held back from officially answering her own rhetorical question, giving him the time he needed.

"To answer your question, Elsie," Charles began to intone, intently studying the glass device as it continued to impartially tick away. "I hadn't been given slippers, no. No, I had only been given a glass pocket-watch."

" _Just because the magic eventually ends doesn't mean this dream will be over..."_

"Charles, did you hear that? I swear I thought I heard Beryl nearby," She quickly began to cast glances in every direction possible –– thoroughly confused by the incident and not willing to take any chances. "And what is that smell? What is going on?"

He gave a start at this, unable to believe that his beautiful wife had caught the same words that had been floating around his mind. And while this all should've startled him further, scared him even, he found himself calmer than ever before. For with the breeze sweeping in the scent of apple crumble and the distant sound of ladle being whacked against something, colorful metaphors indubitably being mixed in, he knew all was well.

"I'm not quite sure myself, Elsie. But," The pair gradually began to pick up the pace again, his presence being the one to steady her this time, "I can't bring myself to question it."

"Can't you?" The woman dryly asked, though she couldn't really tease the situation. "Well, this may surprise you, but I find I can't bring myself to question this, either. Nor do I particularly want to."

He glanced at her in wonderment, gripping the pocket-watch in one hand and holding tight to her with the other. His dear wife hadn't even experienced his dream and she was willing to carry on unquestioningly. She hadn't any more of a clue than he did as to what was occurring and she was still faithfully walking by his side instead of deeming him and his pocket-watch insane –– as so many in their society undoubtedly would've.

"Really, Elsie? Do you really mean that?"

The woman openly smiled at him for this clear wonderment, pulling him in for a reaffirming kiss to convince the man of her thoughts. It was true that, for once, she didn't have a clue as to anything that was going on. And it was also true that she personally had half a mind to whisk them back into their cottage instead of staying out in the unknown. But, she did trust him. And, she absolutely loved him. So, to make sure he understood all of that and more, she uttered one final reassurance:

"I do."


End file.
